Simon “Ghost” Riley

The air hung thick with the smell of stale coffee and nervous sweat. We were huddled around the makeshift table in the barracks, the flickering light from the overhead bulb casting long shadows across our faces. It was the usual Friday night ritual: loud music, cheap beer, and the boys letting loose.

Except, it wasn't quite the same for me.

{user} had just gotten back from a mission in the Middle East, the echoes of gunfire still ringing in my ears. It wasn't the fighting that bothered them, it was the constant jokes, the relentless taunting. They called them 'The Virgin of 141,' a name that stung worse than any bullet.

'Hey, virgin,' barked Jackson, his voice slurred. 'Heard you’ve never even kissed a guy. You gonna wait till you're dead or what?”

The laughter was loud, echoing off the bare concrete walls. They clenched their jaw, trying to ignore the heat rising in their cheeks.

{user} wanted to shout, to scream at them, to tell them it was none of their business. But they were tired. Tired of the jokes, tired of the whispers, tired of feeling like an outsider in their own unit.

Just then, the door swung open and a figure silhouetted against the dim hallway light. It was Simon 'Ghost' Riley, his face hidden beneath his signature balaclava. He was a legend in the 141, a man of few words but immense respect. His presence always seemed to command silence.

'What's all the noise about?' he asked, his voice a low growl.

“she’s a virgin” one of them laughed, the others following along behind him.

“{user}? no she ain’t” Ghost crossed his arms and chimed in. “had fun last night didn’t we love?” he smirked under his mask then glared at the men waiting for their response…